When Somebody Loved Me
by Layne Muffins
Summary: Lars just wants to hold her once more. Song-fic: When She Loved Me. The Netherlands/Belgium. Lars/Bella. With Spain and Romano.


**A.N. So. I'm back from my hiatus…. Finally. With some Lars/Bella fluff. Because there's not enough love for them. None whatsoever. **

**And I really hate Spain/Belgium and Romano/Belgium. I like Iggy/Belg, but only as friends. The only person I really pair her with is the Netherlands. Yurp. And this song reminds me of them. D':**

**(youtube) /watch?v=A3qBbLyRixg**

Laughter, sweet and blissful, full of jubilee, rang out, riding on the light breeze. Lars smiled, her happiness infectious. She grinned at him, youth radiating from her porcelain face, cheeks tainted pink. Her long, wavy honey tresses fluttered in the spring gale, burdened by the intoxicating scent of tulips, taunting to two with the promise of a bloom.

She leapt into his open arms, nuzzling his chest. She was so young, taking on the appearance of a twelve-year-old girl, and Lars looked twenty-two. Yes, she would grow and reach an immortal beauty at a young age, perhaps seventeen or nineteen. And this youth of hers wouldn't last long.

So Lars pulled her close to his chest, smiling as she clutched at his shirt.

"I love you, Lars."

.

Lars roamed the halls of the large, extravagant house, lost once more. _Dumb Spanish Mansions. High Maintenance, Spaniard. _Lars growled, slumping his shoulders in defeat. His ears picked up an odd sound, a sniffling from behind one of the intricately carved mahogany doors. Slightly interested (and heck, he had nothing better to do), he creaked the door open to find a dusty storage room, boxes stacked to the roof, shelves toting countless books.

And curled into a ball, with wisps of hair scattered on the floor, a girl sobbing. A pair of scissors clutched in her shaking grasp.

Lars stifled a gasp as he crossed room, scooping up the girl, cradling her close to his chest. She clutched onto his shirt, and it could've been nostalgia. If she wasn't weeping, if there wasn't hair littering the floor, and perhaps if the scent of tulips were present.

But it was a sad kind of embrace.

The fifteen-year-old girl peaked through blurry eyes, tears glazing the hazel-green. Lars choked back a sob, running his hand down her hair, stopping as it ended at her chin. She offered him the pair of scissors, her fingers shaking. He took them from her grasp and threw the sterling silver pair aside, pressing her into his chest once more.

He didn't need to ask why she had done this. He knew her too well.

She just wanted to be strong. And this was not a time for women to be strong. And so she let go of a heavy burden, a beautiful trait. To prove herself.

But here she was, folded into a ball, crying into Lars's shoulder like she used to do when she was younger. Lars sighed in sadness and ran a hand down her back. Snatching the red ribbon stitched on his waistband, he tied it around her head, pulling the choppy bangs from her face.

She laughed weakly and sniffled.

"I love you, Lars."

.

"Well?"

Lars stood in the doorway, glaring at the Spaniard that met his eye with a chilling green. The little Italian peered up from behind Antonio, clutching to his pants. Lars's heart panged as he was reminded of a little girl who once followed him more faithfully than his own shadow. The invitation was open, hanging in the air, as he questioned her to see if she would follow him once more.

"Lars." She whined, gnawing on her bottom lip, conflict swimming in her eyes. Her honey locks had grown, tickling her shoulders, but it was probable that it would never be long again. And holding back the bangs from hanging in her eyes, a scarlet ribbon.

"Well?" he repeated.

"I-I'm staying." She muttered, tears racing down her cheeks. Silence filled the room.

Lars sucked in air through clenched teeth, his balled fists trembling. He fought the tears forming at his own eyes, and he cast his glance away. Something inside him broke; he could hear a crack echoing in his chest.

Pulling his striped scarf tighter around his neck, he turned on his heel and stormed away. Behind him, he could hear her choke on a sob and cry violently, hyperventilating as the Spaniard held her close, trying in vain to comfort her.

She croaked, speech broken by the tears, a phrase that he hadn't heard in a long time from the nineteen-year-old.

"I-I-I l-lov-v-ve you, L-Lars."

.

It was spring once more. And the soft breeze tussled his blonde locks, wafting with the once lovely scent of tulips.

But anything that reminded him of her turned sour.

He sat on a hillside, the green grass tickling his ankles. His empty eyes trained on a Flemish Rabbit, watching it passively as it hopped to and fro. He said nothing. He had nothing to say. No one to say anything to. No one to say anything back.

There was a crunch of grass and a body joined Lars on that hillside. He cast a glance sideways and was met with hazel green eyes, the cat-like smile that he loved. He kept his silence, simply looking at her face, emotionless. She pulled her legs to her chest and looked over the valley, sighing in content. His gaze remained locked on her.

"I'm getting married."

There was a pause, and Lars merely blinked.

"I didn't know there was a merger to be between Spain and Belgium. That doesn't happen often this day in age." Lars muttered finally, slowly dragging his gaze away from her profile and to the valley as well.

"It's not Spain and Belgium. It's Antonio and Bella."

Lars clutched the grass, knuckles paling white. "Oh."

"You're invited."

He said nothing. But she sighed once more, this time in hollow sadness. She turned to him, and pried his arms away from his side. He remained motionless as she snuggled up to him, pressing her head to his chest, wrapping her arms around his torso.

Lars bit his bottom lip, a single tear sliding down his cheek, plopping on her blonde hair. Slowly, arms sharking in the slightest, he held onto her back, pressing her closer to him one last time. He breathed in the scent of tulips on the breeze, and they smelled the slightest sweeter.

And she muttered into his scarf a phrase almost forgotten to him; he couldn't help but choke on a sob.

"I will always love you, Lars."

**A.N. Yep. I hate SpaBelg, but man, it was essential to the plot line. And, this was angsty, but the song is angsty and so beautiful and I cry when I listen to it and I see Lars being the kind of guy who saves all his love for just one special person and oh, look at that, I'm ranting. /shot**

**Anywhoodles. Yeah. Back on the ball, guys. Woot woot. **


End file.
